


Indulgent

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [243]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to More Than Friends, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Princess Bride Quote, a bit of a mishmash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 09:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7839250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>indulgent: adjective: in-ˈdəl-jənt: having or indicating a tendency to be overly generous to or lenient with someone</p><p>early 16th century: from French, or from Latin indulgent- ‘giving free rein to,’ from the verb indulgere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indulgent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrub456](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrub456/gifts).



> I know it's a day late for the appreciation day...but I hope you will indulge me <3
> 
> * from The Princess Bride

From the very beginning, he was always a bit indulgent when it came to Sherlock; at first, it was simply because he was grateful to his new flatmate for his new life, and he was, let's face it, even more uncomfortable with feelings than his supposed 'sociopathic' friend, so demonstrating the briefest hint of gratitude just wasn't on. He knew people assumed he stayed because they were a couple, he couldn't possibly actually enjoy the detective's company without...you know. 

So, yes, he would buy the milk, and tea, and take away, try to make the arse eat and occasionally sleep, and shoot cabbies if necessary. Even when Sherlock would rouse him from sleep at 3 am for a 'brilliant' case, then yowl at him in frustration when the 8 became a 2 the moment they arrived on the scene, he knew it was never personal, he just happened to be the person in his line of sight. 

At some point, the gratitude became something more, something that he didn't want to name, not because he wasn't gay, but because he was afraid his affection would be rejected, and then he would lose everything. So, he continued on as they were, until the one case that nearly ended them both.

 

It was, as Sherlock would later whisper to him, "only a four, John, nothing worth dying over..." and he probably would've been fine if Sherlock hadn't dashed off before Lestrade had showed up, as was his wont, and if John hadn't dashed after, as he always did. As it was, when Lestrade finally arrived in response to Sherlock's frantic, incoherent texts, John was cradled in Sherlock's arms, the Belstaff draped over him, and the blue scarf was on its way to becoming a deep aubergine, a stopgap measure until the cavalry turned up, two minutes later.

Lestrade rolled his eyes at the paramedics and they nodded, knowing better than to try to separate the detective from his blogger, or vice versa, and after a moment had managed to get them both stowed away into the back of the ambulance, with remarkably little drama.

 

Sherlock was gently directed to a row of the ugliest chairs he had ever seen in his life, and a cup of something resembling coffee was pushed into his hands. He supposed it was fine, as his hands were freezing, at least he could feel that. Somehow, an hour later he was staring into an empty cup, he didn't remember drinking it, but he must have. All he could remember was the moment John crumpled to the pavement, it had seemed so important to be there first, to be right, to outsmart everyone, until John moved in front of him, taking the bullet that was meant for him.

"Why? Why did you, John?" Sherlock muttered as he closed his eyes, trying to form a theory as to John's motives. Finally, he binned the empty cup and began pacing, hands clasped behind his back, mumbling something that to an outsider probably sounded like complete gibberish...but eventually, his head snapped up from his contemplation of the shiny linoleum floor beneath his stockinged feet, and he took a gulp of air.

"He loves me." Sherlock dropped into one of the chairs with a thud and remained there, barely moving until the nurse led him to John's room, a few hours later. He stood just inside the door, and observed the too still and silent form that belonged to his friend, presumably resting? Hopefully he wasn't trapped in a nightmare, afraid or confused? Damn. It was then that Sherlock came to the startling conclusion that he loved the man who was lying there, in his place. 

He didn't recall walking to his friend's side, then sitting down and carefully taking John's hand in his, but he must have, as eight hours later, he jumped as he felt something squeeze his fingers, not that hard, barely noticeable, but it startled him awake. He looked down and saw John's dark blue eyes blink open, and seem to crinkle up in relief?

"It was only a four, John, nothing worth dying over..."

 

John growled his impatience as Sherlock shook his head. "Nope. You know what the doctor said..."

"Two more weeks...yeah, yeah, I know, I just wanted -"

"What? Tell me, anything, and I'll do it."

"Come here."

"Why?"

"Just, please, come here?"

Sherlock nodded, trying to think what John could need, he had the remote, a stack of cheesy spy novels, a cup of tea that Sherlock had just replenished, he had just washed, dried and put away the breakfast dishes...

He stood by the couch and waited.

"You are too tall, you do know that, yeah? Bend down, here, please?"

Sherlock did as he was asked and was in danger of toppling over when John pulled him into a kiss, a simple brushing of lips, that's all it was, but it turned his brain to marshmallow and he lost the ability to form coherent sentences in any of the seven languages that he had known just the moment before.

"I miss you."

"Hmmm?"

"Will you sit on the couch, uhm, with me, while I sleep?"

Sherlock nodded mutely, and helped resettle John, so that he rested his head in Sherlock's lap. John glanced up into Sherlock's eyes that were glittering down at him, and he sighed. "I'm okay, you know, it's just a matter of time before I'm running after your lovely arse again, yeah? Breathe for me? There - you do realise breathing isn't really boring?"

"Do you remember every bit of nonsense I've said to you?"

"Of course I do, idiot."

"Why?"

John rolled his eyes and whispered, "because I love you. I think there's a bee documentary on 2, if you get bored." He yawned and closed his eyes.

"I love you, too." Sherlock muttered as he pressed a kiss to John's fingers, then he flipped through the channels until he landed on John's favourite movie, one of those rather silly romantic things where somehow everyone ends up relatively happy and mostly undamaged.

 

"All right. Where is the poison? The battle of wits has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink, and find out who is right... and who is dead."*

 

"Ooooh....poison...might not be so bad after all..."


End file.
